


Apologia

by dynamicsymmetry



Category: Harsh Realm
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:12:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never is just another word for until.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apologia

_But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,  
That they should be as stones.  
Wretched are they, and mean  
With paucity that never was simplicity.  
By choice they made themselves immune  
To pity and whatever mourns in man  
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;  
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;  
Whatever shares  
The eternal reciprocity of tears._

\--Wilfred Owen

The first thing they told him after they woke him was that there had been an attack, and three men were dead, and five were missing.

They didn't say who had launched the attack, because as yet they didn't know. There were some leads and they were being followed up. Hopefully some arrests would follow. In the meantime, all they knew was that there had been an attack, and three men were dead, and five were missing.

He sat in the dark long after he hung up the phone. He hung up the phone long after he heard the soft click at the other end. He sat in the dark and stared at the dark and tried not to think about other times he'd been in this exact same place. At least in those (mercifully few) cases he'd actually been there for it when it happened. There had been no late-night phone call. The only voice saying "hey, guess what? a bunch of your friends are dead and it may have been at least partially your fault, and now you get to talk to their relatives!" had been the one in his head.

They weren't his friends, either. That was also different. He hadn't even known them. He wasn't even sure he'd met them all personally. He tried to meet with everyone under his command in some capacity, but the job was getting more involved and the expansion was moving faster, and time seemed to be the one thing these days that he never had enough of.

Three men dead. Five men missing. It was those five missing that ate away at his insides. At least with the dead ones you knew something for sure either way.

Inga stirred next to him and murmured something in her sleep. He didn't want to wake her and there was no way that sleep was happening again for him, not that night. He got up and threw on a robe and went into the study. He turned on the desk light and sank into a chair.

They didn't know who had done it. They didn't know.

A scouting mission of eight men should have been able to fight off all but the most organized kind of resistance. It was worrying. Over a year now he'd helped to oversee Santiago City's southwestward expansion and nothing seriously organized had appeared. There were the occasional rag-tag groups, the occasional highly skilled (and completely insane, if you asked him) assassin. Beyond that... the last serious combat he'd seen hadn't even been in this world. Being a soldier here was more like being a glorified, overtrained cop. Rounding up people in the way of the steady march of the fence, all battered and starving and hollow-eyed. Plenty of them died in detention before they were even interrogated. It was sad, it was depressing, but it was not dangerous.

Three men dead. Five men missing. He sat in a chair so soft and huge that it threatened to swallow him and tapped his lips with his forefinger.

Whoever they were, they had been organized enough to take down eight highly trained Guardsmen, and controlled enough to take five as prisoners. Maybe that part had been planned beforehand. Maybe that was just how it had ended up. Either way, the taking of prisoners suggested any number of other worrying possibilities. He wasn't sure how he was going to talk about this to the General.

Later, much later, he would think about that last worry and wish that he could bring himself to laugh.  


* * *

  
Early that morning he made some phone calls, talked to parents and spouses and children. It was hard, but not as hard as he had been fearing it would be. Anyway, it really wasn't the dead ones that were bothering him.

Late in the morning they finally had more to tell him.

They had canvassed the area where the attack had taken place and rounded up a dozen or so people. Transients and dirt farmers, barely scraping by. Most of them hadn't had anything useful to say, until they'd gotten to one man. One of the farmers. He'd been taken along with his wife and young son and he was scared to death. They hadn't even had to threaten him. He'd been dropped into the chair in the small, dim room reserved for this kind of questioning and the officer in charge of it had barely taken his seat across the table when he'd started talking.

There were fifteen of them, he'd said. Give or take a few. He'd seen them moving through the area. They were wearing fatigues and were heavily armed and were pretty clearly not Republican Guard.

When had he seen them? Day before yesterday, as the sun was going down. They were passing on the road, heading east.

Why hadn't he reported it? There was a standing reward for information leading to the arrest of rebels.

Life wasn't that simple outside the fence, he had replied helplessly. People kept their noses out of other people's business. It enhanced their life expectancy. Particularly if that business involved guns.

They had let him and his family go with a reward, which turned out to be fuel and several bags of fertilizer. The rest they had held onto. No sense in letting them free when they'd just have to be arrested again when the fence made it that far.

Besides, someone might still know something.

In the meantime they had men fanning out towards the east. It was just a matter of time before something turned up.

After lunch the General sent word that he wanted to see him. He looked up at the messenger, his duck tamarind sitting cold and untouched on the table in front of him, and said that he'd be right there.

General Santiago was standing with his back to him when he entered the war room. He often did that. It lent him an air of aloofness and distance; just a touch of the lonely warrior poet about him. At least, he assumed that the General believed that this was the effect it had. In his opinion, it made the General seem rather more like a Bond villain. He needed the high-backed swivel chair and the white cat, and he'd be set.

It was a very bad idea to even appear to be laughing at the General.

"Major Pinocchio."

He didn't salute; it wasn't something that they did in this context. "Sir."

The General turned slowly to face him. "I hear your men ran into some trouble yesterday."

Pinocchio cleared his throat. "Three dead and five missing, sir."

"I had the report, same as you. Of course you're investigating?"

"We have some leads we're following. We'll find them."

"I trust you will." The General turned away again, back to the glass map that hung in the center of the room like an idol. His treasure. The representation of the future, of everything. "Allow something like this to gain a victory and it starts to put down roots. Once the roots are established... you won't like what grows."

A year and a half ago he might have found the elevated language and poetic imagery that the General so often employed to be funny. A year and a half ago he might have mocked it. A year and a half ago he was a very different person. "Yes, sir."

"Dismissed, Major."

He turned to go. His hand was on the door handle when the General spoke again. "Major."

He turned back. "Sir?"

General Santiago was facing him again, with a look in his eyes that he hadn't seen before. Hard. Calculating. As though he was being measured against some unknown standard in the General's complex and labyrinthine mind.

"It's a jungle out there, Major. There's no room for mercy."

They looked at each other for a long moment, Santiago still strange and cold and Pinocchio suddenly confused, unsure of what any of this meant. Uncomfortable. Finally, thankfully, the General turned back to his map and waved a hand behind him.

"Go."

He went, more quickly than usual.

He was just sitting down to dinner with Inga when the next call came. They had someone.  


* * *

  
They had picked him up in one of the rough makeshift marketplaces that appeared and disappeared wherever there was a concentration of people. He'd been trying to trade ammunition for food. It had been the kind of ammunition that had caught someone's eye and caused them to point the small party of Guardsmen towards him. Heavy caliber. Not the kind you saw the average Joe outside the fence carting around.

He had tried to run and hadn't made it more than a few yards when a filthy man selling animal pelts stuck out a pair of beefy arms and took him down. He hadn't fought much after that. He hadn't spoken at all. They had processed him but not interrogated him; they had assumed that the Major would like to have a chance to speak with him first.

He was being held in a detention center downtown. Perhaps the Major would like to come—? The Major certainly would.

The man was short and muscular, with a shock of dark hair and a broad face which might have been friendly in other circumstances. As it was it was closed and expressionless. He sat in the chair in the musty interrogation room, his hands bound behind him, his eyes staring stubbornly ahead.

Pinocchio stood behind the one-way glass and regarded him curiously. That steady gaze seemed to penetrate the mirror and hit him directly. But there was no possible way the man could see him.

"He hasn't said anything?"

"Not a word, sir." The lieutenant handed him a few sheets of paper, which he glanced at half-interestedly. Processing forms. Typical stuff. Under the section marked "statement" there was nothing.

"Has he been fed?"

"Haven't given him anything, sir. We were waiting on your orders."

"Good." Pinocchio put a hand up to the glass. The man still appeared to be staring directly at him. It was mildly unnerving. "Give him dinner. Nothing fancy, but more than bread and water. I'll talk to him when he's done."

"Sir." The lieutenant went out into the hall; Pinocchio could hear him faintly, speaking to the guard outside the door. He turned his attention back to the glass, his hand still pressing gently against it, as though he could not quite believe that it was there.  


* * *

  
"You say your name is Marcus Leonov?"

Marcus Leonov stared straight ahead and said nothing. Pinocchio dropped the papers onto the table between them and stared levelly back. "Interesting name. It's Russian, isn't it?"

Nothing.

"I spent some time in Russia. Nice place. Cold, though." He folded his hands over the papers and leaned forward slightly in his chair. "What were you doing with Republican Guard ammunition, Marcus?"

Nothing. Maybe a slight twitch at the corner of the left eye.

"Yesterday a scouting party of eight Guardsmen were attacked on their way back to base. Three of them were killed. Five are missing, presumed taken prisoner. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Marcus?"

Nothing.

"Three of them are married," Pinocchio said. "Two of them have kids. We'd really just like to find them, get them home safe to their families. Do you think you help me with that?"

Nothing.

"Fine." Pinocchio straightened up and slid his chair back. "We're done here. Too bad you couldn't help me. Not everyone around here is as nice as I am."

"I'm not from Russia."

Pinocchio stopped. Leonov was eyeing him warily, but with some openness now. He slid forward again.

"No?"

Leonov shook his head slowly. "I'm from Indiana." His voice was low and softly rounded by a midwestern accent.

"So what are you doing here?"

Leonov smiled slightly. "Thought I might be useful here."

"Doing what?"

"Think it might be good if I knew your name before this goes any further."

There was a short silence. Then, "Mike Pinocchio."

Leonov snorted sudden laughter. "Are you serious?"

"It's not like I picked it."

"So what is that, Italian?"

"My dad's parents were from Italy, yeah."

"You don't look it."

Pinocchio shrugged. "My mother was Irish. And I think it's my turn to ask some questions."

"I won't answer them." Leonov was looking down at the table now, apology surprisingly present in his voice. "You know that."

"Why not?"

Leonov laughed. "That's a pretty stupid question, Mike."

"So pretend I'm stupid, then." Pinocchio leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. "Why won't you help me find my men?"

"You don't just want to find your men. Don't fucking patronize me." Leonov was abruptly harsh, his face twisting. "If three of your men are dead you won't be taking prisoners. And if you take them you won't be keeping them for long."

Pinocchio leaned forward again. "So there is a group involved here."

Leonov's lips tightened into a thin line. "I told you. I'm not telling you anything."

"So why have you been talking to me this whole time? You haven't spoken to anyone since you got here."

Leonov said nothing, staring at him with the same stubbornness he'd seen when he'd first entered the room. Finally Pinocchio slid back the chair, stood and knocked on the glass behind him. After a few seconds the door swung open and the guard stood aside to let Pinocchio past.

"You don't belong here."

Pinocchio stopped in the doorway. "What?"

Leonov smiled again, a little upturning of the corners of his mouth that suggested that he knew a great deal more than he would ever say. "When I was little," he said, "my mom took me to a zoo. There was a pack of wolves there, and there was one big one, think he was the leader, and he was just pacing all the time, all over the pen they were in. It wasn't like a cage, it was big and there were rocks and plants and shit. Pretty nice. But you could see that he hated it. You could see it in his eyes. He was pacing up and down like he wanted to kill something." His smile faded. "Have a good night, Mike."

Pinocchio stared at him for a few seconds more, then turned and left without a word.

The lieutenant was waiting for him in the observation room. "You see?" he said. "Useless. You want us to turn him over to one of the interrogators?"

Pinocchio thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No," he said slowly. "No, leave him there overnight. Don't give him a bed, just leave him in the chair. Leave the lights on. I want another crack at him tomorrow."

The lieutenant looked doubtful, but nodded. "Yes, sir."

Pinocchio looked back through the glass. Leonov had fixed his strange gaze on it again, on and through it. He knew Leonov couldn't see him. His skin itched and buzzed. He just needed to get home, that was all. Needed to get home and sleep.

Inga was dressed for bed and reading, and got up when he opened the door. "I went ahead with dinner without you," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't wait, but it was getting late."

He shook his head wordlessly and sank onto the sofa.

"Are you all right, Michael?"

He tried to smile at her. "Sure. I'm fine. Just hungry, probably."

She put out a slim hand and he took it, her skin cool and smooth under his fingers. "Come into the kitchen. I'll make you something."

They made it into the kitchen and then he pushed her back and up against the wall, his hands working roughly under her pajama top. Turned out he wasn't that hungry after all.

Afterwards she fell asleep but he lay awake, gazing up at the ceiling and thinking. It seemed as though he could see eyes in the dark, shining and golden and wild, and full of fire and hate.  


* * *

  
"Let's talk about the ammunition."

Leonov tilted his head to the side like a large, amused bird. "Let's not."

Outside it was morning. Inside the little room it might have been any time, with its grey walls and its lack of windows, and the single florescent light flickering almost imperceptibly over the table. Except for the dark hollows under his eyes, Leonov looked as self-possessed and impassive as he had the night before. According to his guards he had not slept.

"Come on, Marcus," Pinocchio said patiently. "Heavy stuff like that is rare as gold outside the fence. We have the largest supply in the area. If you didn't get it from us, where did you get it?"

Leonov shrugged as best he could, with his hands bound behind him.

Pinocchio dropped a round on the table with a sharp *clunk*. "The scouting party had six boxes of this on them. We didn't find any of the boxes in the humvees at the attack site."

"Maybe scavengers picked them up after."

"Or maybe whoever took my men knew a good thing when they saw it."

Leonov shrugged again and said nothing.

Pinocchio raised an eyebrow. "You ever heard of Occam's Razor?" When Leonov said nothing he continued. "It's basically the idea that, all things being equal, the simplest explanation is usually the right one." He leaned forward. "Let me just run something by you, see what you think. Let's say there's a well-organized and well-armed resistance group that, for one reason or another, we haven't run into until now. And along comes my scouting party, and they happen to be in the area, and they jump at a chance. They kill three, take the other five, go into hiding. But they suddenly have five more mouths to feed and they're running short of supplies. And they just happen to have picked up these boxes of rounds. People need ammo, don't they? Sure they do. So they send a man out with a box of it to get some rations. Only, when something is rare people tend to notice it. Bad luck for him."

Leonov gazed ahead, stonelike.

"That sound simple enough to you?" Pinocchio asked softly.

"You want to know what I think?" said Leonov. "I think things are usually a lot more complicated than people want to believe." He smiled. "You'd know a lot about that, wouldn't you, Mike?"

"What are you talking about?" Pinocchio's eyes narrowed.

"Like..." Leonov paused. "Like, just for example, you have people here who know how to get information out of guys like me. You haven't introduced me to any of them yet. Why do you think that might be?"

Pinocchio stared at him. "I..." he began.

"How'd you sleep last night, Mike?"

"Better than you."

"Really." Leonov sat back, shifting his shoulders. "Come on, Mike. What are you doing here? Why are you kissing that Nazi's ass?"

Pinocchio barked a short laugh.

"What?"

"You just..." Pinocchio stopped and chuckled again. "You talk to me like you know me."

"I do."

"I don't think we've met."

"We haven't. But I do know you. I've known a hundred guys like you."

"Is that so?"

Leonov nodded, his face suddenly full of some intense and nameless emotion. "Men who were in pain and didn't know why. Men running from themselves, from who they really were."

Pinocchio smiled thinly. His face felt like a mask. "I'm not running from anything."

"So why are you here?"

Pinocchio was suddenly on his feet, leaning over Leonov, pushing him back in his chair with one fist gripping the front of his torn and dirty shirt. "I eat three meals a day," he hissed. "I go to bed at night with a roof over my head. I don't have to run or hide or eat scraps to survive. I help hold this fucking world together. I don't debase myself, Leonov. I don't live like an animal. _I don't live like you._"

Leonov looked up at him calmly, that damned smile tugging at the corners of his mouth again. "Really," he murmured.

Pinocchio held him for a moment longer, teeth bared in an unconscious snarl. Then he released him, slumping back and running a hand over his face. All at once he felt very tired. "I have things to do," he said. "We'll try this again later today."

"Looking forward to it."

The lieutenant was waiting for him again behind the glass. "So," he said uneasily, "you want me to—?"

"No." Pinocchio ran his hands over his face again. "No, I want to try one more time. I'll be back this afternoon. Have you fed him?"

"No."

"Okay. Good." Pinocchio sighed. "Don't. And leave him there. He can use the bathroom, but that's it."

"Sir."

After he left the room the guard approached. "So. You think we should tell someone?"

The lieutenant shook his head. "He's the boss. We do things his way for now."

"But time is—"

"I know. But no. Not yet."  


* * *

  
The things he had to do were all maddeningly mundane. Brief some underlings about new perimeter patrol assignments. Review reconnaissance reports. Interview some newly promoted officers. It was, he reflected, exactly the kind of thing he had seen senior officers doing back in the Real World, and had thought _God, no, never for me._ Being shot at might be a pain, but at least it wasn't tedious.

But he lived well. He lived better, in fact, than he ever had in his life. He had a big house. He had money to spare. He had a maid, for God's sake. Years ago if someone had told him that he would ever have a maid he would have looked around his cramped, cluttered apartment and laughed out loud.

He thought about the people filling the cells in detention centers. Gaunt. Filthy. Hopeless, empty eyes. Little more than animals in human form. Give up all this… for that? He supposed such a thing might seem noble, to the deluded.

Inga met him for lunch at a small sidewalk café. He sat in the sunshine and watched people pass with shopping bags and briefcases. Busses and cars rushed by. Across the street children played and squealed in a playground shaded with sycamores. If he squinted he could have almost mistaken it for midtown Manhattan.

Inga slid into the seat opposite him and smiled. "We don't do this enough anymore."

"I know. I'm sorry, just seems like there's never time."

"Well..." Her fingers closed around his. "It's good that you made the time."

"Sir, ma'am, anything to drink?"

"Iced tea for me," said Inga. "Michael?"

Pinocchio didn't look up. "Water's fine."

The waitress moved away and Inga looked at him appraisingly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just—" He sighed. "I didn't sleep well last night."

"There's nothing else bothering you?"

"Not a thing." He smiled and it felt fairly convincing. "How's your day been so far?"

"Oh..." Inga laughed and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Same old thing. We get inches from a breakthrough and then everything falls apart. But the digiwand is looking like it might turn into something we can use."

Pinocchio looked up abruptly. "Are you happy here?"

The smile died on her lips and she stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean... if you could go back, leave here forever and not have to worry about it again... would you?"

"I—" She stopped. "Why are you asking me that?"

"Just been thinking."

"Well." She thought. "Well... no, I wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because," she said firmly, "this is where I need to be. This is where my work is. And it's good work, you know it is. It's work that I need to do. That we need to do. And besides," she added, sipping the iced tea that the waitress had just set in front of her, "I _am_ happy here. I have everything I need. Why would I leave?"

"Well," he said. "Well. I guess you wouldn't."

"And," she said softly, her foot brushing against his leg under the table, "you're here."  


* * *

  
"This has been hard on you, hasn't it?"

Pinocchio looked up as he took his seat. "It hasn't been easy."

"Tell you what," said Leonov. "Why don't we play a game? Maybe it'll perk you up."

"What kind of game?"

"You get to ask me a question, I get to ask you one."

Pinocchio laughed shortly. "What shitty movie did you pull that out of?"

"No, I'm serious. Might be fun."

"Might be something." Pinocchio leaned back and folded his hands behind his head, feeling his back pop in several places. "Any chance you'll actually give me answers?"

"I will certainly try."

"Okay. Okay, what the hell. Where are my men?"

Leonov shook his head sadly. "You would ask the one question I can't answer."

"Can't, or won't?"

"Maybe both. Tell you what, though: I will answer every other question you ask, if I can."

Pinocchio looked at him for a long moment. "You know," he said, "Just about anyone else would have killed you by now."

"I'm not dealing with them, am I? And that one doesn't count. Come on, Mike. Ask away."

"Are they alive?"

"Oh, good one. Valuable, without asking me to tell you anything directly incriminating." Leonov paused. "Yes. As far as I know, they're all alive."

"Who is—?"

"Ah-ah-ah. My turn. That's the game."

"Fine."

"Why are you here?"

"What's 'here' mean?"

"Not why you're here working for... for him." Leonov's face screwed up with obvious distaste. "Why are you here in Harsh Realm?"

"I—" Pinocchio looked down at the table, to the side, at anything else. "I had an accident," he said. It felt as though the words were being wrenched out of him. "This just seemed like the better place to be."

"I see."

"How do you know about Harsh Realm?"

Leonov shifted in his chair. Pinocchio guessed that his arms had to cramping badly by now. It was impressive how well he hid the pain. "I was sent here like you, of course." He paused, thinking. Then, "How many people have you killed since you got here?"

"How many people, or how many VC?"

"Oh, Jesus," Leonov gasped in mock horror. "You don't still actually think there's a difference, do you?"

"Sure there is. VC aren't real."

Leonov stared at him. The horror didn't seem so fake now. "I have no idea what to say to that," he said. "I really don't."

Pinocchio sighed. "Personally, five or six."

"VC, or—?"

"Combined."

"Personally."

"Yeah." Pinocchio cleared his throat. "My turn. Who was behind the attack?"

"A group of people dedicated to the freedom of the individual."

"That's not an answer."

"You mean it's not the answer you wanted. I said I'd answer you, Mike. I didn't say I'd tell you what you wanted to hear. What's your favorite childhood memory?"

Pinocchio closed his eyes and thought. There weren't a lot of them. Up until his second year of junior high they had been pretty standard, good and bad. And then his parents had decided that they couldn't stand each other anymore, and the bad years had started and continued for longer than he would have believed possible. But before then…

"My father teaching me how to throw a baseball," he said quietly. He opened his eyes and Leonov was looking strangely at him, his eyes very dark and sunken even more now. Pinocchio noticed, as if for the first time, that the light made his skin look grey-green, like a body that's been in the water for a few days.

"I never knew my father."

"Yeah, well. You didn't miss much." Pause. "Tell me the names of the people in this group."

"I honestly don't know them. They don't use real names."

"Code names, then."

"I mean, they don't use names at all."

"What the fuck do they use then?" Pinocchio asked, voice rising impatiently.

"Numbers. Five, three, so on. It wouldn't help you. What do you like best about your job?"

The questions were flying out of him now, without any pause to think. He must have them saved up. He must have been planning this all day.

"I like feeling like I'm actually making some kind of a difference. Like my job has meaning."

Leonov raised his eyebrows. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. Why, not the answer you wanted?"

"No, no... just not what I was expecting."

"You don't think I'm making a difference?"

"I don't think you're making the difference you think you are."

"Yeah, well, it's a good thing I don't have to care what you think." Pinocchio rubbed his palms against his eyes. His face felt numb and tight. He had told Inga that he hadn't slept well. He hadn't told her that he hadn't slept at all, but for a short patch just before dawn, full of dreams that he couldn't remember and didn't much want to. "How many people are in this group?"

"I honestly don't know that either. More than ten."

"As many as twenty?"

"Maybe more." Leonov paused. "You haven't actually asked me if I'm one of them."

"I thought that was a given."

"Just because I was running an errand for them doesn't mean I'm anyone important."

"So are you?"

"You ask me two, I get to ask you two."

"Fine. Whatever." Pinocchio cocked his head. "So are you?"

"I am..." Leonov thought. "I'm a member, but not high up. There's a lot they never tell me. Tell you the truth, Mike, even if I told you everything I know it might only help you a little."

"But you know where they are, where my men are."

"Why haven't you had me tortured yet?"

There was a silence. Pinocchio gazed blankly across the table at him and Leonov looked back, unwavering.

"Okay," he said slowly. "Let me ask you another." He leaned forward, straining against his cuffs. "Why don't you let me go," he murmured, "let me go and come back with me?"

Pinocchio stood up, bent over the table until they were almost nose to nose. "What the fuck do you have to offer that I can't get right here?"

Leonov looked back evenly. "A good night's sleep," he said.

Pinocchio stared back at him for a moment longer, and left.

Outside, a message was waiting. The General wanted to see him again.  


* * *

  
"How's the investigation going, Major?" Santiago was actually facing him when he opened the door. It threw him off slightly and for a second he fumbled for an answer, which Santiago didn't give him the chance to give. "I hear you're having difficulties," he continued. "Uncooperative subject in custody."

"I've gotten some information out of him. I think he's close to cracking."

"Close isn't going to cut it, Major." Santiago stepped forward and placed his fingertips on the long curved table which stood between them. "We have men in danger out there. This is time-critical. We need a location."

"I understand that, sir."

"Do you? Because your behavior thus far doesn't suggest that. Since when did it become procedure for you to interrogate prisoners yourself?"

"I—" Pinocchio faltered. "He has... we've developed a rapport, sir."

The General's lips thinned into a line. "And would that be why you haven't handed him over to the people who specialize in getting prisoners to be helpful? This 'rapport'? I told you, that's not good enough. We're running out of time." His voice lowered. "Do you really want to explain to their families that you let them stay in enemy hands because you were busy making friends?"

Pinocchio said nothing.

"I was going to order you to hand him over to the experts," Santiago said, "but if you really have developed some kind of connection with him that might be useful after all. You've wasted valuable time, but you have a chance to make this right, Major."

"Sir?"

"You've tried asking him to tell you what you need to know. Try making him tell you." The General paused. "Of course," he said, "you could go ahead and hand him over in any case. I'd hope you wouldn't, though. I have no use for men who can't finish what they start."

Pinocchio stared at him. He felt as though all his blood was pooling in his legs. "Sir, I—"

"Are we clear, Major?"

"Yes, sir," Pinocchio said. His lips that felt like pieces of cut meat.

"Dismissed."

The walk back through the richly furnished corridors felt like miles. Guardsmen saluted him as he passed them and he returned the salutes mechanically.

He knew about the less savory aspects of detention in Santiago City. Of course he did, he'd handed prisoners off to the people who directed those aspects, though that in itself was rare. Men and women carefully selected to undergo training that everyone knew about and no one liked to speak of. They almost always got what they wanted. The prisoners were rarely seen again. He knew about it, sure. But like everyone else, he hadn't thought much about it. And he hadn't ever seen it. And up until now it had hardly ever even been necessary.

He walked out of the lobby, bent over to the driver waiting in the black towncar and waved him away. He walked down the drive, though the gates and onto the street. It was full dark and most people had gone home. Santiago City wasn't known for its thriving nightlife. Not in the heavily populated areas, anyway. But there were others that didn't appear on the bright surface that the city liked to present, and it was towards those that he headed now. He passed out of the city center with its towering office buildings and its lush parks and made for the riverfront, walking along dark side-streets and alleys with his head down and his hands stuffed in his pockets.

He was noticeable, he knew that, still in uniform. The times he'd been this way before he'd gone in plainclothes, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. The fact that he was a live human being out and walking around was a thing in itself, though. He was entering an industrial district, with refineries and oil tanks and forbidding warehouses. The streetlights here were dimmer and yellower, making the shadows indistinct and shifting. No one to be seen.

There were no homeless in Santiago City, no destitute, but there were nevertheless parts of the city which weren't clean and shining, and which were allowed to exist because they made certain things that couldn't be gotten openly convenient and available. Particularly for those in power. As far as Pinocchio knew, only Santiago himself never came here. Perhaps it was because he didn't have to in order to get what he wanted. Perhaps it was because he genuinely wanted nothing to be had here.

This was also where certain less respectable jobs were outsourced to.

Pinocchio turned onto a deserted avenue lined with warehouses and a few dingy offices. To his left, the river gleamed and flickered in between the buildings. He could smell water and damp pavement.

He stopped outside a dark, low building and knocked twice at the door. A few seconds and then it opened, seemingly under its own power. He stepped inside and it swung shut behind him with a heavy metallic clang.

Down a dark hallway and into a large, windowless room which appeared to double as a work and living area, computer equipment and dirty dishes scattered over almost every surface in equal disarray. A bank of monitors was set against one wall, providing the majority of the illumination. A large and unmade bed was set against another.

"Well, well." A dark-haired man attired in a black tee and ratty jeans stepped out from behind a set of bookshelves, wiping grease off his hands with a similarly greasy towel. "Wasn't expecting you. Should have called, I'd have cleaned up for you."

"I would have called. Two hours ago I didn't know I'd be here."

"I see." The man stepped forward, dropping the towel onto a nearby desk. "One of those spontaneous things, huh? How uncharacteristically romantic of you. And in uniform, too." He smiled and slid a hand down one olive-green sleeve, fingering it idly. "I've missed you. It's been a while."

Pinocchio put out a hand and grasped the man's wrist, moving it gently aside. "Not here for that, Alex," he said.

Alex stepped back. "Then what are you here for?" he asked, voice clipped.

Pinocchio sighed. "Need to borrow some stuff."

"What stuff?"

"Tools."

Green eyes darkened. "I see." He muttered something in Russian, turned and walked over to a set of cabinets, opening one and rummaging in it. "So he's got you doing some dirty work, finally," he said over his shoulder.

Pinocchio didn't answer. In the back of his mind, as it had been for the last several hours, several images were playing on a loop. A shadow in the desert. A silhouette against a dusty wall. Terrified eyes over the barrel of a gun. Blood very dark and very wet on the ground.

That one hadn't been his fault. It hadn't made it any easier to bear.

Alex was turning around and coming back to him, a black leather briefcase at his side. "Here we go," he said, holding it out. "My little black bag."

"It's all in here?"

"Everything you should need." The corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "Remember to clean them before you bring them back."

Pinocchio nodded and turned to go, then stopped and turned back. "How do you do it?" he asked. "What's the trick?"

"Trick?" Alex raised an eyebrow. "There is no trick, Mike. You can do it or you can't. Guess you'll find out which one you are." He waved a dismissive hand. "Get outta here. I have work to do."

Pinocchio got out.

The case was very heavy in his hand as he walked quickly back up the avenue. A fine rain was misting down, flattening his hair against his head and making everything glisten and blur.

Somewhere behind the noise in his head was the thought that there was still time, he could still turn this over to someone else and go home and forget about it. Or he could go back and maybe… maybe just scare him, maybe try to reason with him. Maybe offer to go back with him if that was what it took. Lying, of course, but Leonov didn't have to know that. There was still time.

He wiped rain out of his eyes with his free hand. No. No, there really wasn't. Not in this world.  


* * *

  
Leonov's eyes widened slightly when Pinocchio set the case down on the table between them. Beyond that there was no outward reaction.

Pinocchio took his seat across from him and sat there, staring mutely. The silence drew itself out until Leonov finally broke it.

"What's that, then?" There was a tremor in his voice so faint that it was barely there at all. Barely.

In answer, Pinocchio leaned forward and snapped open the case, turning it to face him. Leonov's eyes widened slightly more.

Shears. An assortment of long needles. Clamps. Tourniquets. A hand saw. A bone saw. Scalpels. Several sizes of pliers. Several buck knives. A small hatchet. A power drill.

"I see," Leonov breathed.

"I've been very patient," Pinocchio said. He felt patient. He felt calm. All the noise in his head was gone. His vision had become strangely flat and everything seemed very unreal. Which it was; he could truly see that now. It was just a game. That was all it had ever been. And games had to be won.

"You have."

"And you've been less than helpful."

Leonov smiled falteringly. "I've tried."

"Yeah, well." Pinocchio spread his hands. "Here we are."

"Yeah."

There was another silence.

"Look, Marcus, I really don't want this to happen, okay? I don't think you do either. You can fix this. You can. Just tell me where they are."

"You don't want it to happen," Leonov said quietly. "No one's making you do it."

"You have no fucking idea." He turned the case back towards him and took out one of the smaller pliers, turning it slowly in his hands. "Where are my men?"

Leonov shook his head. "You don't have to," he whispered.

Pinocchio got up, walked around the table and behind the chair, crouching and taking one of Leonov's hands in his, rubbing the palm almost lovingly with his thumb. "Where are they?"

Leonov shook his head again, wordless.

"That's too bad," Pinocchio said. He gripped Leonov's thumbnail with the pliers and pulled sharply.

Leonov didn't scream. He clenched his teeth together, threw his head back and made a high keening sound that vanished into breathlessness. Blood dripped from his thumb. Pinocchio opened the pliers, dropping the nail onto the floor with sudden disgust. He stood up and pulled the chair away from the table to face him.

"Where are my men?"

Leonov gazed up at him. Tears shone in his eyes. One corner of his lower lip was bleeding where he had bitten it.

"If you don't tell me now," Pinocchio said blandly, "I'm going to pull out the rest of your nails. Then I'm going to break all of your fingers. Then I'm going to take your nose off, and I'm not going to do it fast. Then I'm going to move onto your ears, maybe start on your eyes if it goes that far. Maybe explore some other options. I've never done this before, so I'm not really operating on any kind of a plan." He bent down, reached out and tugged lightly on one of Leonov's earlobes. "You didn't think I would, did you?" he asked. "You didn't think I would actually do this."

"No." Tears were streaming down his face now. "No, I honestly didn't. I didn't think you were that far gone." He choked back a sob, then, in a second, all the feeling left his eyes. "God help you," he whispered. "God fucking help you."

"Tell me."

"No."

"Fine."

He didn't actually remember doing it. One moment he was standing in front of the chair, the next he was standing behind it, his hands and Leonov's hands and the floor beneath dark with blood. He was faintly aware that he was breathing hard.

Leonov was crying now, horrible broken sobs that sounded too loud in the small room, bouncing off the cinderblock walls. It was annoying. He should have brought earplugs, maybe.

"Tell me."

"N—No."

Pinocchio sighed, reached into the case and selected one of the scalpels. It glittered cheerfully in the harsh light. He crouched down, in front of the chair this time, and went to work.

It was almost a relief to finally get a scream.  


* * *

  
"I'm here. What did you—Oh. Oh, Jesus." The lieutenant peered through the glass, mouth slack. A large red smear partially obscured the view. "Why didn't you stop him?"

"You know what I was told. Thought you were told the same thing."

"Yes, but—_this._ I mean, _Jesus._" The lieutenant ran a shaking hand over his face. "You ever seen anything like this?"

The guard shook his head. "Once. Not here. Lower down."

"Right. Right, of course." Heavy exhale. "Did it work, at least?"  


* * *

  
His hands were bloody.

He leaned against the wall, his knees drawn up against his chest. The blood on his hands had dried to a crust and they cracked when he flexed them. He was looking at them, had been for the past half hour or so, and at the empty chair in a corner of the room, trying to twist it all around into some kind of sense.

His hands were bloody. A lot of the room seemed to be bloody. One wall was splashed and streaked with it, reaching up almost to the ceiling. When he was eleven he had visited a friend's farm. They had been slaughtering the hogs. He hadn't known and he had stumbled on it. The flash of the knife. The jet of red.

His hands were bloody. He turned them slowly in front of his eyes.

The door opened and he jumped. The lieutenant stepped in and saluted. "Major."

He looked blankly up at the man. There was blood on his hands. He didn't seem to understand.

"Major, may I help you up?" A hand was extended. It was clean. How was that possible? How was it possible for anything to be clean?

"Major." The lieutenant was smiling hollowly. "Please."

As if in a dream, Pinocchio took the lieutenant's hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

"The General wants to see you, sir." His eyes flickered downward. "And maybe it would be a good idea for you to wash your hands."  


* * *

  
Santiago was facing away from him and didn't turn when he entered the room. It was reassuring.

"I hear you have something for me, Major."

"I do, sir." Pinocchio stepped forward, produced a folded piece of paper from a breast pocket, and laid it on the table. Santiago turned. "Well done. I knew you'd come through, in the end. I knew you'd prove yourself to me." He smiled. "You look beat, Major. Go home and get some rest. There are some things I want to discuss with you tomorrow. Dismissed."

Pinocchio looked down at the paper. "Aren't you going to look at it?" he asked softly.

Santiago turned away to the map, hands folded behind his back. "Not necessary. The matter's in hand, Major. Your men are safe."

Pinocchio looked up at him. Gaped at him. All at once he felt very cold.

"What is it, Major?"

"You've known where they were this whole time, haven't you?"

Santiago turned back to him but offered no response except for a smaller version of his smile.

Pinocchio shook his head numbly. "But. But why?"

"There are things I need in the men close to me. Intelligence. Vision. And a certain quality of ruthlessness. I was reasonably sure that you possessed the two former. I had some doubts about the latter. I no longer do."

"A test."

Santiago nodded. "In part. The attack was real. We just capitalized on an opportunity." He reached out and clapped Pinocchio on the shoulder. "Relax, Major. You passed with flying colors. Starting immediately there are some more... sensitive responsibilities that I want you to take on. I'm going to be expanding your level of control over the next month or so." His smile widened. "I'm going to make you my right hand, Major."

"Thank you, sir."

"Go home, Major." Santiago turned away again, this time with an air of finality. Pinocchio stood where he was for a moment longer, then turned and walked through the doors, headed down the long miles of corridors, out to the car.

He was silent on the ride home. He couldn't stop looking down at his hands. They were scrubbed and very pale in the moonlight.

Inga was already asleep. It was getting on to two in the morning. He stood in the bedroom doorway for a few minutes, gazing down at her softly curving form in the illumination of the hall light, listening to her steady breathing. Looking past her, out the window at the moon hanging heavy and yellow in the sky. It was like an eye. Like a huge, wild eye. There was no fire in it, no hate. It was cold.

He turned suddenly, went into the bathroom and bent over the toilet and vomited up the contents of his stomach in a burning rush.

When it was done and the heaving subsided he sat against the cool tile wall, in a patch of moonlight. He had cleaned up before going to see the General but it didn't matter now. He reeked of bile and sweat, and blood, yes, of course of blood. He couldn't imagine that would ever stop.

His hands. He stared down at them. They looked clean. He didn't in a million years believe that they were.

The moon turned over him, watching him with its cold eye.


End file.
